ity,
he would do it no more. They should beg in vain. He was an artist in the
true sense of the word--a great painter, ranking with Whistler, Sargent,
Velasquez and Turner. Let the magazines with their little ephemeral
circulation go their way. He was for the whole world.

He stood at the window of his studio one day while the exhibition was
still in progress, Angela by his side, thinking of all the fine things
that had been said. No picture had been sold, but M. Charles had told
him that some might be taken before it was all over.

"I think if I make any money out of this," he said to Angela, "we will
go to Paris this summer. I have always wanted to see Paris. In the fall
we'll come back and take a studio up town. They are building some dandy
ones up in Sixty-fifth Street." He was thinking of the artists who could
pay three and four thousand dollars a year for a studio. He was thinking
of men who made four, five, six and even eight hundred dollars out of
every picture they painted. If he could do that! Or if he could get a
contract for a mural decoration for next winter. He had very little
money laid by. He had spent most of his time this winter working with
these pictures.

"Oh, Eugene," exclaimed Angela, "it seems so wonderful. I can hardly
believe it. You a really, truly, great artist! And us going to Paris!
Oh, isn't that beautiful. It seems like a dream. I think and think, but
it's hard to believe that I am here sometimes, and that your pictures
are up at Kellner's and oh!--" she clung to him in an ecstasy of
delight.

Out in the park the leaves were just budding. It looked as though the
whole square were hung with a transparent green net, spangled, as was
the net in his room, with tiny green leaves. Songsters were idling in
the sun. Sparrows were flying noisily about in small clouds. Pigeons
were picking lazily between the car tracks of the street below.

"I might get a group of pictures illustrative of Paris. You can't tell
what we'll find. Charles says he will have another exhibition for me
next spring, if I'll get the material ready." He pushed his arms above
his head and yawned deliciously.

He wondered what Miss Finch thought now. He wondered where Christina
Channing was. There was never a word in the papers yet as to what had
become of her. He knew what Norma Whitmore thought. She was apparently
as happy as though the exhibition had been her own.

"Well, I must go and get your lunch, Honeybun!" excl